“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of grief… and unspeakable love.”~ Washington Irving
Over the past few days, I have cried buckets of tears.
At times, they just slowly slip out without my noticing until my vision is blurred and my cheeks are wet. Other times, they have escaped in these great gasping, sloppy sobs that speak volumes to the sorrow that is aching to make its way out.
Regardless of how the tears have made themselves known, the release has created potentially fertile ground where change can finally take root.
At this point in my life, I am intimate with depression, but this is not it—this is sadness.
Pure and simple and thorough.
I can feel the ache in the marrow of my bones—the place where I store the loneliness and the desperation that have been my constant companions for decades. As much as I want to push it away, I can no longer deny it the rightful place it has in my life.
There is an intense melancholy for all that was and what was not. Sadness for all that has been lost and cannot be regained. I hold steady as the waves of grief ripple through me for the small and innocent child who was lost during the years of unspeakable abuse and the devastatingly ignorant aftermath.
I haven’t eaten much in days. I am peckish and yet fully aware that the hunger within me cannot be satiated by food.
I am craving an inner peace that I am not sure I have ever known. A way of being that allows my soul to speak and be heard by my own unsullied ears. I am on the verge, allowing myself to see what I need and offering it to myself in turn.
I am here, waiting and ready to be cracked wide open.
In some ways, I am coming undone, by my own hand. I feel open in a way that I have not been—perhaps ever. I long to see the majestic crystals hidden below the craggy surface. I want to feel the edges—both sharp and smooth—beneath my fingertips.
I need to embrace all that is there and has been there, silently begging to be seen.
I am stepping forward, out of my self imposed darkness, ready to remove the blinders that have kept me from experiencing my life in anything more than shades of grey.
I have no delusions that any of this will be easy. I do not doubt that I will want to duck my head and run for cover on a regular basis. But I am also confident that I need to allow all that has remained buried and hidden for so long to rightfully find its place.
It is time to surrender to myself.
I have to be able to loosen my grip on the reins that I have white knuckled for years. The moment has come when I am being asked to let go of what I no longer need and wholeheartedly embrace the child, and the woman, who has been lurking just beneath the surface waiting to be loved and attended to.
Jill P. Dabrowski is an empathetic introvert who feels too much and sleeps too little, but is rather accustomed to the imbalance. She lives for the pause between the inhale and the exhale and has a tendency to become enamored with people who make her heart come alive. She is rather accustomed to chaos but still constantly craves calm. Jill spends much of her time trying to keep up with her progeny—twin ninja monkeys and a mini Dalai Lama—as they come into themselves. Her greatest hope is that she can offer them the love and support they deserve as they carve their own space in the world. She runs and writes and meditates, yet still tries to find time to wish on dandelions and falling stars as she strikes random yoga poses. She is actively working to become more comfortable in her skin, scars and all. Jill has written for Rebelle Society, Some Talk of You & Me, and The Tattooed Buddha. You can follow her musings and mutterings on Facebook and on Instagram.